


Bastille

by TheMalhamBird



Category: Versailles (TV 2015)
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-29
Updated: 2016-09-29
Packaged: 2018-08-18 14:19:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8164891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMalhamBird/pseuds/TheMalhamBird
Summary: Companion peice to The Five People Who Could Have Offered Phillipe Comfort....a look at the Chevalier's thoughts and feelings during his incaceration in episodes 7 and 8





	

**Author's Note:**

> As requested ;) Hope you guys enjoy, please comment and let me know
> 
> (warning for the mildly smutty dream/nightmare/thing Chevy has about Phillipe)

 

 

The Chevalier understands, suddenly, why Phillipe cares so much about clothes. Until now, fashion has been little more than an amusing way for him to pass the time, to enjoy Phillipe’s company and to tease him with- “The skirt looks, wonderful, Mignionette. But I think it would be even better if it went _just_ a bit higher…” and his hands would caress Phillipe’s hips and legs as he lifted the heavy fabric, bunching it around Phillipe’s waist as he slipped a hand between Phillipe’s thighs-

Clothes were enjoyable and but never anything important and he could never quite understand Phillipe’s claims that silk and brocade were exactly the same as iron armour. Now, however, flung in to a filthy cell, stripped of his shoes and stockings and jacket and waistcoat and his cravat- now, the Chevalier understands. He feels three times smaller and sorrier than he can ever recall feeling in his life, as if he has been stripped of some protective shell-

-or maybe it’s just the cold of the Bastille and the realisation of his own stupidity. He shivers, clasping his arms around himself and whishing his limbs were Phillipe’s, that Phillipe’s warm body were pressed against his. That his warm body were pressed against Phillipe’s and he was the one doing the holding, whispering words of comfort and promises of escape to the inevitably more frightened prince-

-the Chevalier always did like to imagine himself the romantic hero. He had wanted- oh how he had wanted- to have been able to return to Versailles from Paris to find Louis regrettably dead from a sudden but natural illness at which point he would have been able to present the Crown of France to his mignonette like Paris presenting Aphrodite with the Golden Apple. Despite what others would surely think, it wasn’t because he wanted to be lover to the King of France.

He’d done it because he wanted the rest of the world to be able to see Phillipe the way he saw Phillipe rather than the way Louis saw Phillipe. Even though that hadn’t been what Phillipe had wanted-  no, Phillipe _had_ wanted it, the Chevalier argued with himself: he had seen it in Phillipe’s eyes and in the memory of a thousand bitter conversations past, even if Phillipe hadn’t had the courage to speak the words out loud….

 

The Chevalier does not want to die. The screams of men torn apart by horses ring in his ears and haunt his dreams.  Sometimes he dreams he’s back with Phillipe, Phillipe with his beautiful, glossy mane of hair and his lithe body and his soft skin, contentment written over his face as they lie in the marble folly at Saint-Cloud, legs tangled up in silk sheets. _Phillipe is beneath the Chevalier, looking up at him with lips slightly parted, with eyes that trust completely, eyes that think the Chevalier is the most beautiful and perfect of all the stars in the sky. It’s a look at once wholly innocent and wholly fierce, and it makes the Chevalier tremble lest he be found wanting by the gaze searing in to his soul. The Chevalier leans down and captures Phillipe’s lips with his own, gently, chastely; Phillipe moans anyway, body arching and wordless pleas forming in his breath. And suddenly they’re in Phillipe’s room at Saint-Germain, nineteen or so again,  lying fully clothed on the bed with a chessboard between them. Phillipe’s slender fingers hover over indecisively over the pieces. “How do you play again?” he asks. The Chevalier rolls his eyes. “Here,” he sighs, reaching over “Let me show you-“_ (that isn’t right, the Chevalier thinks vaguely- Phillipe was the one who taught him how to play chess- but this is a dream. Such details don’t matter.) _“Take your knight-“ Phillipe’s hand closes around his wrist. “You’re my knight,” he says. “My beautiful Chevalier de Lorraine……..”If you’re my Chevalier, does that make me your horse?”_ (They are walking in the gardens of the Palais-Royal and the Chevalier remembers this conversation happening, almost word for word) _The Chevalier laughs. “Well, let me see… mane, check” he says, caressing the locks falling around the Phillipe’s shoulders, “graceful, agile body- strong, but built more for speed- you’re not a destrier, I’m afraid. But no pack horse either- of course, we should probably take in to account the fact you don’t like to be ridden-“ He ducks away as Phillipe swats at him, both of them laughing- “You’re my wild Stallion,” the Chevalier proclaims, “My beautiful, unbreakable stallion- Phillipe?” He is alone, suddenly and it’s dark, and Phillipe appears suddenly as if through mist. The Chevalier can see which Bourbon features the Madame inherited from her mother, Phillipe’s aunt, in Phillipe’s face, which seems sharp and cruel suddenly. “Wild horses trample the ones who try to tame them under foot, Chevalier,” he hisses, “They take the sugared treats and honeyed lies people like you try to coax them with and then they bolt, never to be seen again once they’ve had what they want from you…I’ve had what I want. I’m bored now. It’s time for you to leave.” And the Chevalier is being pulled in four different directions and it’s too painful he can’t and he_ wakes up drenched in sweat and breathing heavily, and filled with the absolute certainty that Phillipe isn’t coming for him. Maybe he can’t, maybe Louis won’t listen to him…. or maybe the Chevalier’s arrest gave him an easy excuse to start looking for a new lover. There would always be men willing to fuck the King’s brother. Or maybe, Phillipe was trying to move on completely- devote his time to the Madame and the bastard growing inside her- the Chevalier had no doubt the child was the King’s; Phillipe hated lying with women, the Chevalier knew: his was the bed Phillipe came to afterwards every time, embarrassed and miserable and wanting nothing more than to be petted and held. He visited the Madame’s bed infrequently, wheras his brother, as best as the Chevalier could make out, visited it- or her- at least once daily if not more. Phillipe had grown strangely interested in  the child recently, however- and perhaps, with him out the way…without him getting in the way, Phillipe might stand a chance for a slightly happier marriage.

Perhaps being in the Bastille was for the best.

Being in the Bastile wasn’t for the best.

Maggots- God Almighty, what was He thinking when He created maggots? They crawl all over the dried out crusts that are given the name “food”; the Chevalier can’t bring himself to eat. He thinks he might be dying- he lacks the energy to move even if he was feeling hungry enough to try and pick the maggots off the food-the Chevalier thrives on people, gossip, music, dancing, flirting and stirring trouble, (on Phillipe)- without those things, he has nothing, he _is_ nothing-

_“I’m dying.”_

_“Don’t be absurd,” Phillipe said, sitting on the edge of the Chevalier’s bed and taking his hand, squeezing it lightly. “It’s a cold, that’s all.”_

_“Are you sure the Madame hasn’t had me poisoned? I feel like shit.”_

_“You look like shit,” Phillipe leant over and kissed his forehead. “But not like a corpse, and lucky for you your looks aren’t the only reason I like you.”_

_Phillipe turned to the table at the side of the bed and plucked a grape from the bunch. “Here,” he said, holding it up to the Chevalier’s lips. “I’ll feed you if you have no strength to eat.”_

(Sometimes, the Chevalier convinces himself Louis had Phillipe punished for the Chevalier’s treason. In those moments, he finds the strength to eat because he knows that if Louis blames Phillipe for what the Chevalier did, sooner or later the Chevalier will have to convince them otherwise, even if doing so costs him his life. In those moments, he convinces himself to live- for Phillipe’s sake, if not his own


End file.
